


Futile Devices

by arlathahn



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Borderline Personality Disorder, Codependency, Emotional Manipulation, Flirts with Season 13 canon before taking a left turn into shipping territory, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Introspection, M/M, Narcissism, Post-Season 12, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-05 22:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16376309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: Dennis is not a god, he knows that now.It’s just too bad he only realized the truth right before he started to bleed.





	Futile Devices

**Author's Note:**

> Since _Mac Finds His Pride_ is going to blow my mind no matter what happens, here's my AU featuring breadcrumbs of (thus far) S13 canon, out of order and blended with other ingredients, because that's just how my fanfiction mind works. Enjoy! 
> 
> Title is from the song by the same name by _Sufjan Stevens._ As always I have about five fanfic-inspired songs floating around my brain, but this one really takes the cake as "angsty Dennis gets knocked down a peg...before Mac inevitably picks him back up".

 

* * *

 

Dennis and Mac are introduced over drugs.

It’s not a surprising occurrence, most would figure. Mac’s entire backstory consists of the illegal in some form or another. If it’s not through Dennis, it’s Charlie. If it’s not through Charlie, it’s Mac’s father. If it’s neither of those then it’s Mac himself, becoming involved in whatever substance happens to be around because it’s all he knows, all he covets. It’s the closest to affection, the closest to wealth he will ever know. Mac gravitates toward what he lacks with makeshift willpower, but Dennis knows better.

It’s not will. It’s want.

He’s a scrawny thing, Mac MacDonald, not at all the buff superstar he wants to be. His arms are thin, his chest hollow. What he lacks in physical prowess he makes up for by loudly proclaiming it so, and Dennis knows all about the delicate lies one swaddles themselves in. Dennis lives in a home with ulterior motives and bulletproof delusions, but in Mac he sees truth.

Because the only lies Mac tells are the ones he tells himself.

Mac wants to be tough, so Dennis calls him strong. He wants to be straight, so Dennis assuages his fears. Mac is a simple man, with simple desires and even more simple delusions, but the generous output of his heart, the sheer volume and production of his affection is an odd, perplexing source: a mystery that keeps Dennis coming back for more under the guise of tasting the illegal.

Dennis’ proclivities for the illicit are not that far off base, at this point.

Why Dennis willingly sidles between dumpsters and bleachers—where the gum sticks to the aluminum in pink-black circles like stars—is a more befuddling kind of mystery. Dennis is above the mundane establishments of his peers, above the sad poverty of the two losers playing pretend after hours, but his appetite, Dennis finds, only increases with distance. The more Dennis plays the card of an aloof higher standard, the more Mac and Charlie call to him, curious and effortless and more than a little perturbing.

It should be a turn-off, probably. Dennis has been bored to tears with far less, and Mac’s predisposition for draping himself on Dennis’ high collar shirts should be a sight unruly and desperate: equal parts hopeless and wanton. But it’s not, despite the dirty paws linking themselves to Dennis’ body, and it’s not untoward, either: Dennis leans into it, on the hard days, and clings to it on the worst ones.

And so Dennis’ cravings are a curious thing. Tantalizing and specific and honed in on two boys perched beneath the track and field bleachers smoking pot and discussing life like talking and wishing is more than mere fantasy. Like their wild dreams of success and fame are feasible, easy-to-attain cash grabs. Like anything is possible.

Needless to say Dennis is not accustomed to such simple, such profound logic. Needless to say Dennis is intrigued.

So little catches his attention anymore, so little piques his interest, and Mac never questions him besides. He never needles, never questions. Mac is the first to look at Dennis with overwhelming adoration, the first to worship Dennis for the benevolent god he is. It’s what Dennis deserves, what the rest of his classmates lack, so when the _disgrace_ of reality closes in, claustrophobic, then Dennis finds himself back behind those star-lined bleachers, relishing in the awe reflected in Mac’s dark eyes, the rare unclenching of his shoulders.

It’s an addiction, but not of the narcotic sort. Mac looks at Dennis not with envy, but with fascination. Mac doesn’t want to _be_ Dennis, he just wants to be near him. He just wants to be the moon to Dennis’ sun, wants to bask in Dennis’ sovereignty even if it means denouncing his own religion. None of it is for show, like the jokers in Dennis’ class. None of it is feigned enthusiasm, like the random strangers who wine and dine in Dennis’ living room. None of it is false worship, and that is Dennis’ favorite part: it makes the rush of adrenaline better, makes the taste of success sweeter. Not even Dee would agree to half of Dennis’ schemes, but here Dennis doesn’t even have to ask: Mac is already by his side, subservient and obedient, a loyal disciple. A most humble servant.

And that type of unwavering loyalty, that kind of authentic worship fascinates Dennis. It intrigues him, when the world is stock full of uninteresting losers with uninteresting stories. Mac MacDonald is Dennis’ opposite: as overexposed as a live wire, but instead of being tired of the electricity Mac feeds on it, as though it spurs the blood flow directly to his heart.

It’s a foolish way to live, in Dennis’ opinion. It’s a good way to die, if you ask him.

But Mac keeps on living, and he keeps on loving, until the electricity inevitably explodes.

 

* * *

 

The most amazing part is, it’s not Mac who gets lost in the flames. It’s not Mac who degenerates and dies in a fit of blazing glory. It’s not Mac who falters, who doubts and succumbs. It’s not Mac who winds up afraid and searching for meaning. It’s not Mac who arrives at wit’s end, desperate and terrified to lose what he’d taken for granted for years upon years.

It’s not Mac, but it’s pretty damn close. It’s not Mac, because it’s Dennis.

The thing is, Dennis should have seen this coming. He didn’t take good enough notes, he muses, didn’t account for the scientific principles he so prided himself on. He didn’t account for Mac’s humanity, his impulsiveness, his adaptability. He didn’t account for time getting away from him, usurping his beloved control, contorting his makeshift grip on Mac’s neck so severely the ownership changed entirely, the dynamic duo he so adored transforming into a stranger Dennis didn’t recognize or know.

The knowledge nearly kills him, in the end. It nearly brings him to his knees in desperation. They say pride comes before the fall, but those people never met Dennis Reynolds. They never met a god who couldn’t bend the world to their will.

Dennis is not a god, he knows that now.

It’s just too bad he only realized the truth right before he started to bleed.

 

* * *

 

Here’s what happens:

Dennis leaves.  
  
He thought the story ended there, once. He thought he was gone from this place forever. He thought his time with these people, this bar was a thing of the past, a thing he was finally ready to acknowledge made him angry and depressed, a place that brought out the crazy in its owners and regular attendees. He thought he would be a better person if he tried, if he really _tried_ to be there for his son the way his father was never there for him.

He thought.

But it turns out Dennis Reynolds has never committed to anything except hanging out with these loser weirdos he calls friends. Turns out Dennis Reynolds is a failure in every sense of the world. Turns out Dennis is even more fucked up than he first perceived, and even six months away from these bastards he calls friends didn’t do shit to screw his head on straight. Dennis comes back and takes one glance at the place he calls home, takes one glance at the people he calls family and discovers everything is exactly the same except one person and that person is Mac MacDonald, the bane of Dennis’ existence.

Dennis doesn’t know what about Mac stood out all those years ago in high school. It certainly wasn’t Mac’s charm, or his way with words. Mac has no charm, and his vocabulary is shit. It isn’t his looks, though Dennis can admit a certain admiration for Mac on his more forgiving days. It wasn’t anything physical, or at least, it wasn’t top of the list. There was something, though, a distinct quality that radiated off Mac so brightly Dennis nearly flinched away at the sheer intensity of Mac’s attention, even all the way back then.

It’s back now, in full force in real time, and Dennis has the same foreboding sense of the bait before the switch that he did back then. Dennis didn’t shy away then and hell if he’s going to now, but neither is he going to let the moment run unsaid, either. Neither is he going to act any different than he did before, insulting Mac’s existence every chance he gets under the guise of extracting more time to understand this dorky kid with the too-big smile and the mile-wide daddy issues.

So Dennis opens his mouth and in lieu of hello says: “Gain a little weight there, Mac?”

It’s not what he means to say. It’s not how he intended this greeting to go. But it’s all Dennis’ brain provides, all his mouth sees fit to run off with. A god does not make mistakes, but Dennis winces as the joke falls short of the punchline and blames the sting on the sharp, bright light emanating from Mac’s core.

Mac doesn’t say much for the first half hour of Dennis’ return, and it should be troubling, probably. That’s what psychology would dictate, that’s what social constructs would prescribe. But Dennis doesn’t follow rules or systems unless they’re his own rules, his own systems, so instead he feels relieved there is a wide chasm between them, wide enough to hold his own awful instincts in check.

The dam there is a tender thing, mere temporary, but it’s all Dennis has.

It’s all Dennis needs.

 

* * *

 

Theirs is not the most stable of partnerships. It’s barely even a friendship at the start. But it’s something, when the rest of the world is keen on making them into something they’re not. Mac validates Dennis’ ego, and Dennis validates Mac, period.

Dennis knows his veterinary dreams won’t come true, knows Mac is a simpleton who will always dream of bigger and better things. It’s no one’s fault, really, that their fates are sealed, but it makes Dennis dream bigger, makes him crave sharper. It makes him want to reach past the superficiality of the world, call bullshit on the forgeries and the inaccuracies of their respective environments, different though the scenery may be. There’s delusions on all four corners of their worlds and Dennis wants to rip them all down with precise, painful precision. He wants to shovel down deep into Mac’s core and discover what manner of beast lay waiting underneath.

It’s a dangerous way to live, probably. It’s a good way to die, if you ask Mac.

Mac never leaves, though, despite the violence stirring in Dennis’ heart, and that is something, too.

 

* * *

 

Walking into the bar that flurry of a September afternoon is akin to walking into a parallel dimension.

A dimension where Charlie banged the waitress, for one. A dimension where Mac and Dee are friends, or something like it, for two. A dimension where Mac is actually the gym-working badass he always claimed to be, except this time it’s real. This time Mac is ripped and it _shows_.

Dennis…does not know what to do with this information.

Something doesn’t feel right. Something doesn’t fit. Dennis was so certain in his belief that these misfit losers wouldn’t make it two steps without tripping over their own two feet, without Dennis there to orchestrate their movements into a semi-operable quintet.

But they don’t trip. And they don’t falter, either. What happens is not a spectacular shitshow Dennis would pay good money to watch. What happens is not the band breaking up, then getting back together. What happens is not chaos.

Here’s what happens:

Dennis waltzes in the front door at eight o'clock on a Tuesday, and after a brief song and dance celebrating his arrival, the gang is back to their seemingly normal routines: Frank and Charlie in one corner, rummaging through trash and searching for minerals under the booth seats, while Mac and Dee hover in the other, whispering and giggling amongst themselves over any odd thing that passes their way. Which is a lot, where this group is concerned.

Dennis is genuinely concerned for their well being. For their lack of empathy, let alone subservience to his presence gracing their lives again.  

“So,” Dennis allows, one such befuddling afternoon, sidling next to Mac near the bar. “How are things?”

It’s got to be the dumbest question Dennis Reynolds has ever asked, idiotic and opaque, not nearly as refined as his years of education and upbringing would suggest.

Mac doesn’t notice, because Mac is drunk on Dennis’ presence. His eyes open wide before crinkling at the corners. His hands brace at the edge of the bartop, kinetic energy tuned up to full blast. He turns in his seat with his legs open in that perfect little V, inviting Dennis in. Ready to share. Ready to love. Obedient and hopeful and so goddamn naive.

This sight, at least, is blessedly unchanged.

“Oh man, things are great. Better now, of course,” Mac corrects, holding his hands out with just the right degree placated earnestness. “I’ve been uh—” Mac blushes so prettily. “I’ve been hitting up the gym in my spare time.”

Dennis smiles. “Yeah,” Dennis says, with his award-winning smile. “I noticed.” He can be placating, too.

Mac blinks. Looks up. Rubs a hand along his collar. He’s wearing a grey and blue baseball tee that highlights the contrast of his tan skin on display. His arms are lean but twice Dennis’ size. He looks like a goddamn movie star, and what’s worse is his hair isn’t held down in its signature low-dollar gel. Mac looks _good_ , of course he looks good. Dennis would be a fool to not see it.

“Yeah?” Mac says, voice rising on the last vowel the way it does when he’s nervous. Tentative, but pleased. Earnest, though. Always so damn earnest.

Dennis shrugs. “Yeah, bro. You look good.”

It comes out a little more honest and a lot less patronizing than Dennis intended. He’s not lying, but he doesn’t normally walk headline into compliments quite like this. The last time he came close to this kind of honesty was when Mac was sixty pounds too large, when the extra weight enticed the bitter honesty of Dennis’ tongue. Dennis reserves his well-timed gratitude for such opportune moments, when he wants to mold or shape Mac, when he wants to help Mac reach his fullest potential.

They’re five minutes into a goddamn Tuesday and Dennis’ plan is already falling to pieces before his eyes. What a waste.

And then, just as suddenly, the sun darts back behind the clouds. Mac smiles, then frowns. “But I thought—you asked if I had gained weight. Did you…” Mac looks at the floor. Twirls in his seat like a goddamn teenager.

Dennis feels a twinge of sympathy. There are days when Dennis is convinced Mac is the only one who can bring out his rare empathetic streak. Most of the time Dennis doesn’t believe it exists at all.

“Yeah, well, you know.” Dennis gestures aimlessly. “I was just—”

Mac looks up. Dennis makes the perilous mistake of looking into those dark, dark eyes.

“—joking,” he finishes lamely.

Mac doesn’t stop looking. He’s brave when it counts, Mac MacDonald, and braver still since he came out. Stronger too, which is just icing on the cake, isn’t it? Dennis blames his flailing vocabulary on Mac’s biceps currently protruding out of his baseball tee at an absurd degree. Dennis isn’t accustomed to such modest, innocent showmanship, and damn if he’s going to start salivating over it now. In front of Mac, of all people.

Dennis clears his throat. Mac blinks himself out of his too-intense staring contest with Dennis’ throat.

“Well, thanks,” Mac says, though his voice sounds a little choked. “I had some time to kill. You know.”

“Yeah.” Dennis looks at their knees. There’s a good five inches between them, but it may as well be a mile. Close, but not close enough. “It’s been a little while.”

It’s the closest Mac will get to an _I missed you._ Its the closest he’ll get to a _you look better than good._ Dennis has barely said twelve goddamn words but Mac just smiles back like he’s heard every unsaid thought. As though it doesn’t matter Dennis can’t make his throat move to speak, let alone swallow. They’ve been together for five minutes, been alone together less than two, and Mac already has Dennis pegged down to his private volitions, his darkest secrets, and hell if that isn’t more terrifying than walking through the front door of Paddy’s after a drought.

Mac smiles, simple and sweet, and he’s a stranger in familiar clothes. The curve of his mouth is the same, the hunch of his shoulders familiar, but the face attached to it—the arms attached at the neck, the chest flowing down, concaving in just the right degree of sexy, the legs attached by slim hips, hooked around the back of the barstool with a natural, confident grace that only a lifetime at the gym can achieve—that is more real than the sex doll laying at their feet, but somehow feels more imaginary. It feels like a dream, and Dennis doesn’t know whether he’s a stand-in or the main lead.

It makes him flounder. It makes him hurl. It makes him want to drink himself into oblivion if only to take the edge off.

As it stands Dennis settles for smirking right back, calling the bluff until the day he dies, and ignoring the steady little voice at the back of his neck croak with warning.

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

Mac having a _thing_ for Dennis was always a sort of...fact.

Like Dennis being a god, like his impeccable pecs and his strong game and his flamboyant hair, Mac’s inkling for appreciating Dennis’ benevolent form was something that always existed on the peripheral. Mac’s interest was a priceless, omniscient thing, a safe comfort when refuge was needed and reassurance warranted.

So too were Mac’s preferences always safe. Always held, but never reciprocated. Dennis would fan the flames, from time to time, to preserve their integrity. But he would never acknowledge them, never dare _name_ them for fear of the illusion collapsing on itself. The pattern was tested, the result verifiable, and so the gang existed for years with little to no fallout: it was a system as reliable as the D.E.N.N.I.S. system, but it never had a title. It was a secret, but it was safe. It was comfort. It was both acknowledged and unacknowledged—like fine mist on a cloudy day.

Even the gang had their hand in perpetrating the mystery and the illusion: they were not as careful of connoisseurs, of course, but they lended their services when necessary. Dennis never outright included them, never outlined their placards or their place, but he noted their comments, their raised eyebrows. They knew, just as Dennis did, where Mac’s affections lay.

It was almost...adorable, on occasion. Mac was a beautiful actor, after all. Better than Dee, at any rate. He played the part of a heterosexual beefcake turned homosexual disaster almost as wonderfully as Dennis played him. Hinting at hope, a glimmer of a future, only to take it all away, artfully tragic and just as uncaring. The momentary disappointment in Mac’s bright eyes never bothered Dennis because it was never meaningful to start: there was no future beyond that which was already presented, repeating itself time and again for an audience of three: there was just Mac and Dennis and the gang, there was just Paddy’s, just beer and girls and more excuses to get Mac on his knees, looking at Dennis in just the right light.

Dennis knew the reality of the situation before him. He knew he enjoyed the game, and Mac enjoyed the chase. He knew they were two different people, he knew Mac cared, and cared too deeply.

Dennis knew and he kept playing anyway, because this was all he had left, too: the delusion, after all, was as beautiful as it was tragic.

 

* * *

 

When a too-tailored, too-muscular, too-pretty pig of a man wanders into Paddy’s, unprovoked and unwanted, and latches straight onto Mac like some sort of wanton creep, Dennis squints his eyes and stares the offending intruder right into oblivion by sheer force of will.

It doesn’t work, but Dennis keeps trying anyway.

Mac has really become complacent in his duties as Paddy’s head of security, something Dennis points out to Charlie without taking his eyes off the intruder. All this while still attempting to burn him into the ninth circle of hell. It’s no small feat, this work.

“Oh,” Charlie replies from his perch on the floor. Dennis vaguely remembers some line about dimes or nickels, something shiny and small that kept falling to the floor thanks to a broken hole in the register no one bothered to fix. Dennis was all set to berate Charlie on his negligence, but that was before this walking nightmare came in. “That’s just Rex.”

“Just—” Dennis feels his nostrils flare. _Unattractive,_ he reminds himself, and breathes out through his nose. “Who the hell is Rex?”

“You know, the guy with the,” Charlie motions to his stomach, “and the,” Charlie motions to his mouth.

Dennis pauses his glaring contest with tall, dark and handsome for precisely three seconds. “ _What?_ ”

Charlie sighs, like Dennis is the one being unreasonable. “The guy from the model idea of Frank’s. For the billboard?”

“Oh.” Dennis turns back to the overly friendly stranger. He vaguely remembers walking away from that disaster and never bothering to think about it again.

“What are we talking about?” Dee wanders over, nosy and uncoordinated.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Dennis points out. He’s trying to decide between rolling his eyes at Charlie and continuing his death glare on the stranger when Dee turns her scary bird face toward Charlie.

“Rex,” Charlie chirps from the floor.

Dennis frowns. Charlie hides. Dee advances.

“Dude—”

“Oh, I see what’s going on here.”

“You don’t know _shit_ , Dee, so back off.”

“Oh trust me, I know a jealous dick when I see one.”

“I don’t even—I don’t want to _know_ what that means. Can’t you just...go wipe down some tables somewhere else?”

“Not in your dreams, Dennis. This is way more interesting.”

Dennis sighs. Why did he bother coming back to be with these assholes again?

It’s a nuisance because the sight doesn’t go away. It’s grating because the interaction appears superfluous and easy, because Mac basks in it like this fellow was sent from on high by God himself. Dennis misses the careful lies Mac entwined himself with so sharply the pain is blinding, painful. They all have their carefully constructed truths to protect what dire information lay brooding underneath, and staring at Mac stare at someone else—staring at Mac drool over another human form that is not a fictionalized ideal man or an opaque reference to Dennis’ godlike form—is a goddamn travesty.

Dennis tries to intervene, tries to kick this out-of-place buffoon to the curb as soon as possible, but Charlie, of all people, halts Dennis’ advance with a hand on his forearm. “It could be good for him, you know. Spread his wings, so to speak.”

“Can’t hurt.” Dee shrugs from her place behind the bar, her lip curling in that smug way Dennis hates.

“Nobody asked you,” Dennis spits, because he hates them all. This is why he wanted to leave, this is why he had to convince himself to stay. This is why—

“Relax, man,” Charlie puts his hand on Dennis’ shoulder, too high for his lesser height to compensate. It’s awkward and untoward, but mostly it makes Dennis’ skin crawl. The only person who touches him there—the only person _allowed_ to touch him there, and even then on very rare, very special occasions—is currently across the room, basking in this too-convenient-to-be-real model of a man, a man writing his number on a bar napkin with a hasty scrawl.

“Don’t touch me,” Dennis glares, and Charlie wisely shrugs back into nonexistence. He mutters something incomprehensible under his breath as he goes, and if Dennis weren’t seething with bridled rage, he would applaud the appearance of Charlie’s rare intelligence rearing its well-timed head. But Dennis _is_ seething, and he _is_ bridled, and the one person who he could always count on to bat for his team is standing on the other side of Paddy’s suddenly too-large walls, ignoring Dennis completely.

Parallel universe, indeed.

“I’m going to work,” Dennis proclaims, to the complete surprise of everyone in the room. He doesn’t bother reading their faces; he can feel the tide shift in the room, the room comprised of the three people he knows so well, along with another two he suddenly, inexplicably, doesn’t.

He needs to analyze this information. He needs to construct a flawless plan. He needs to keep an eye on the situation, watch its natural progression, then proceed to counteract the problem with a solution so precise and perfect Mac will have no choice but to see reason in that dopey, hopeful way of his.

“Hey Rex, good to see ya,” Frank chirps as he walks in.

Mac smiles, wholesome and sweet, and Dennis closes his eyes against the visual onslaught.

He needs a drink.  

 

* * *

 

It was always safe to harbor Mac’s secret.

It was always easy to nurture Mac’s crush because it would always remain thus: Mac’s affections would never rise to the surface, never be named, acted upon, or exposed because Mac would never reinforce them. To do so would go against the fabric of Mac’s own belief system, his foundation, his Bible, his lifeline. To do so would expose a part of himself as real, as valid: a dirty, dirty sinner with a dirty, dirty sin. 

So when Mac came out as gay, when he announced himself to a room of just five people, but the only five people who counted, they laughed it off at first. They’d been down this rabbit hole before, and unlike one little miss Alice, they knew what was and wasn’t real.

But Mac surprised them all. Mac straightened his spine, puffed out his chest, and said the words no one—not even Mac himself—expected to hear. _I’m gay_. Simple yet groundbreaking, and wholly revolutional.

And Dennis, well. Dennis realized he was wrong.

For the very first time.

 

* * *

 

The icing on the cake, of course, is that the man in question is Rex.

Rex, who shoves cockroaches in his mouth. Rex, who is overly exuberant in everything he does. Rex, who flirts with Mac with all the subtlety of a goddamn hurricane. Rex, who has a six pack rivaled only by _Mac’s_ six pack and isn’t that just goddamn irony at its goddamn finest. Rex, who is now public enemy number one.

Dennis attempts to be supportive, he really does. But Rex has outperformed Dennis one times too many, and screwing with Mac is the final straw. Someone is going to have to take care of Mac in the fallout, and that person is unequivocally going to be Dennis. There was never any question who would be there to pick up the pieces.

But Dennis is a patient man. He is methodical and precise. He figures he can simply watch this disaster unfold with morbid fascination, watch it detonate and explode without lifting a finger toward the trigger. He figures it will be better this way, _cleaner_ , figures the solution to this problem necessitates as little collateral damage as possible. Dennis doesn’t want his dirty fingerprints all over the crime scene; no, the only credit Dennis will claim is Mac himself: Dennis’ finest achievement. His crowning glory. His Van Gogh, his David.

Crafted by Dennis himself.

And oh, the victory will be sweet. Its taste divine. Dennis can picture it now, in the aftermath: flames flickering all around, their heat making Mac’s palms sweat. Rex a distant memory, his presence erased. A pliable Mac, with his eyes cast low but oh so sweet. And Dennis, the savior, the confidante, the champion of Mac’s affections, the sole proprietor of that sweet, wholesome affection. The only one left standing. The only one deserving.

Dennis does not pleasure himself that evening thinking of Mac, precisely, but he comes pretty damn close. His thoughts skirt the line, titillating and effervescent, before bottoming out in the usual monotonous drag of sexual pleasure. The thrill of the illicit calls to him like a sharp hit of cocaine, but he cannot allow himself to be pulled under. He cannot allow the seduction to halt its course, let alone backfire. Dennis halts his progress with perfect control over his thoughts and his body—he’s performed this mental ritual enough times it’s near instinct to pinpoint his pleasure back on the familiar. On himself.

And if his fingers still ache for Mac in the aftermath, well.

That’s between Dennis and his mind.

 

* * *

 

The longer something didn’t happen the harder it was to admit there was _something_ there at all. As though denying its existence long enough meant the attraction faded away, that it was rendered invalid. Except it didn’t, just the truth of it did, until there was hardly a kernel of truth left at all—just the bold-faced lie that felt familiar and comforting enough to sound like its own warped version of truth.

It’s difficult to distort normal, Dennis knows. It’s difficult to initiate the hard conversation. Dennis likes topics to be light, he prefers their dumb jokes and their petty shit and their usual arguments. He doesn’t enjoy being poked and prodded, he doesn’t enjoy being psychoanalyzed and evaluated. He doesn’t like admitting he was wrong, and he certainly doesn’t like admitting the truth.

Because truth hurts. Vulnerability hurts.

Feelings hurt.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t go well.

That is to say, it goes for Mac just fine. He contacts Rex much sooner than Dennis would have, he gushes over Rex’s lean physique far more than Dennis warrants is necessary, and he somehow manages to score himself a second invitation to see said man when Dennis deems the probability of success less than zero.

Somehow, Mac comes out on top.

It’s frustrating. It’s unbelievable. Dennis can hardly believe this is his life, that these are his people. Mac had been unrecognizable from the moment Dennis stepped in the front door, but it’s beyond mere recognition, now. It’s borderline disorienting how different Mac has become. How easily susceptible, but not to Dennis’ charms. How lovestruck, but not for Dennis’ light flirting. How eager, but not for Dennis’ rare praise.

It’s as though Dennis went away and Mac erected a makeshift idol in his stead, a secondary god acting as a placeholder for the real deity. Dennis wants to remove the blindfold from Mac’s eyes, wants to shake his shoulders firm enough to awaken them both from this nightmare, but for once no amount of yelling or flirting is enough to sway Mac. It’s simply _not enough_. Which is preposterous, first of all, because a god should never have to _prove_ anything, much less worth. A god should never be forced to explain righteousness, or power. The source of his being alpha should never need to be explained, refuted, or exposed. It simply _is._ On that fundamental religious note, he and Mac agree.

So Mac’s willful ignorance, his flagrant hypocrisy is annoying. And troublesome. It’s an itch under Dennis’ skin, like the smoke alarm from the suburbs. It grows louder and more incessant the longer Dennis leaves it alone, but he refuses to cave first. He refuses to give in. The situation is dire, it so clearly begs for his aid, but his necessary presence is not recognized or appreciated by his loyal followers, so he waits. And he stews. And he thinks.

And while he does so, Dennis leverages the one point of power he has left: he refuses to call Mac’s Buff Meatcake by anything less than his title. Mac gushes over him enough for the two of them, and Dennis feels sick by association. He doesn’t want to know anything about this person, so Dennis makes him less than one. Like the waitress, Dennis does not deem this man necessary enough to know.

And if the days drone on with an increasingly annoying tendency toward flowing praise in a certain beefcake’s direction, well, then Dennis tunes out the inevitable squabble with a sharp eye on the prize. Through the haze of idol worshiping, the true culprit reveals itself in their slander. Dennis can see the root of the issue clear as day in Mac’s adoring face, his longing stare:

Dennis was gone too long.

All of them have forgotten their ways. Like the Israelites in the desert, they got bored, and they got lazy, and it’ll be up to Dennis to save them from their error in the fallout.

And there will be a fallout, no doubt about it. Dennis is an intelligent man, and he knows a storm is brewing. Mac can’t see it, too busy being distorted by the rose-colored glasses of being out and proud, engorging himself on the only praise readily available to him in Dennis’ absence. But it won’t last. It won’t stick. Nothing ever has, with Mac, and nothing ever will.

Nothing that isn’t named Dennis Reynolds.

Dennis is the only god worth saving. He is the only god worth worshipping. His time will come, and Mac will come crawling back. Dennis’ wrath will be a fierce wave, a work of art, all-consuming and justifiably perfect. Dennis will retrieve his glory, make no mistake.

All he has to do is wait.

 

* * *

 

Mac has been a lot of things. A drug dealer, a high school dropout, a bar owner.

He’s also _not_ been a lot of things. A gay man, a confident man, a badass in street clothes.

It didn’t much matter to Dennis, though, what lies Mac told himself. Because in the place in between truth and not-truth there was Dennis Reynolds: the human embodiment of everything Mac was too terrified to crave. Dennis has lived with Mac, moved with Mac, broken up with Mac, and made up with Mac. He’s seen Mac at his shittiest, his fattest, his best and his worst. He’s been with Mac for twenty goddamn years, through thick and thin, but he’s never once lost Mac. There’s never been a problem they couldn’t hurdle. Not a mountain they couldn’t move. They’ve been a unstoppable duo together longer than they’ve been apart, and at this stage in the game Dennis isn’t sure Mac knows any different. He’s half-convinced Mac wouldn’t survive.

But, somehow, Mac does.

Mac has a new routine, new hobbies, new interests. He doesn’t have new friends, exactly, but he has the gym and he has Rex—and the two collide much easier and much smoother than Dennis ever imagined.

It starts off small: Rex drops by the bar more often, and he calls Mac more frequently. It’s all innocent, so simple and benign Dennis doesn’t pay it much mind. But then the workouts grow more intense, then Rex invites Mac to the Rainbow one innocent Thursday evening and Mac fucking _accepts_.

Voluntarily, of his own volition. No Dennis ordering him about, kicking him to curb when he found someone better. Someone temporary. Someone to remind Mac just who he is and where he stands.

Not this time. This time Mac just fucking _leaves_.

It’s all so sudden, so abrupt and shocking Dennis doesn’t know what to do. What to say. Where to look. It never occurred to him this was within the realm of possibility. He hasn’t accounted for this, he hasn’t prepared for it. There’s nothing to analyze, nothing to fire back with. Dennis is left standing in their own goddamn apartment with no weapon and no ammunition, stunned into silence as Mac—ever-present, ever-loving, ever-adoring _Mac_ —announces his intention to waltz right out the front door of Dennis’ life.

The worst part is, Mac is happy. He’s goddamn gleeful as he steps into the living room, giving Dennis a light pat on the back for good measure.

“Don’t wait up for me,” Mac is saying, smiling bright and sunny in a way that shows off the apple of his cheeks. It’s not a sexy look, but it is a good one, and Dennis is accustomed to that look being directed only one way. The problem isn’t with Mac radiating happiness, of course, the problem is with Dennis not being the source. The problem is Mac being happy at the thought of someone else. The problem is Mac leaving, temporary for now, and permanent for later. The problem is Dennis being left behind to rot, with no church to worship him.

“Sure,” Dennis chokes out, and pretends his throat isn’t dry with fear.

The worst part is, Mac is happy.

The worst part is, Dennis isn’t.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like Dennis didn’t try.

It not like Mandy was an awful mother, and he was a terrible father. It’s not like they weren’t happy—or some approximation of it—for a little while. It wasn’t that Dennis didn’t _want_ to have the feeling behind the action, it wasn’t that he wanted to skip out on his kid.

It wasn’t a lot of things.

What it was, now that’s harder to define. A ticking time bomb. A disaster in the making. Dennis doesn’t quit so much as he is pushed away, to find himself and some modicum of happiness. “I haven’t found it in thirty-five years; what makes you think _now_ will be any different,” he laughs on his way out the door, before realizing the joke didn’t land. Before realizing the joke never landed, no matter whose apartment he was walking away from.

It wasn’t a blowout. It wasn’t an argument. Mandy didn’t slam the door so hard it shook on its hinges. She didn’t boot him out the way Dennis would have kicked himself to the curb. “Go find your friend. Roommate. Whatever you call yourselves these days. Make peace with yourself, then we’ll talk. We’ll…” she hesitated on the threshold before smiling, rueful. “We’ll be here.”

Fifteen hundred miles between them, and the sinking feeling of want still hurts no matter which state Dennis is in.

Mandy and Mac don’t have much in common, but this they do:

They both treat Dennis better than he deserves.

 

* * *

 

Charlie is high.

It’s a Monday and Charlie is high and he’s shambling off the barstool, holding himself up with flailing arms. He’s also yelling at Dennis.

Berating him, more like, but with Charlie’s pitch just on the high side of screeching, it sounds a lot more like screaming. Or yelling. Or in general just incessant shouting.

Dennis is not amused, but then he tends to be unamused by anything Charlie has to say. Charlie’s tastes are very simple, his thoughts even simpler, and this is how Dennis prefers him: ignorant and unaware and so very, very easy to distract.

Sometimes, though, Charlie will surprise him. He is their wildcard, after all, and this makes Charlie unexpectedly unpredictable. It makes him dangerous, but only on certain days. Only when the constellations align just right, and the stupidity of a situation is so pronounced even Charlie—self-proclaimed green-man—takes notice.

“This is all bullshit, you know that, right?” Charlie slips and falls, the floor beneath him slick with an ugly mixture of drool and beer. It could be Charlie’s, could be Frank’s, could be anyone’s. Dennis doesn’t know. Dennis doesn’t care. “Dee, she’s—” Charlie hiccups. “She’s right.”

Dennis offers Charlie his signature stare. Slow on the uptake, predatory on the scowl. Charlie does not heed the warning before him, as per usual.

Dennis sighs. Wonders if he can get away with not answering Charlie’s psychotic pseudo-rhetorical ramblings.

One foot successfully on the ground, Charlie swivels. His shoes squelch in his own mess. Looks like Charlie Work won’t be completed on schedule today, if his shoes and the floor are any indication.

Charlie rests a forearm on the counter. He leans in close, like he’s imparting Dennis with a great secret. “You need to man up.” Charlie’s finger hesitates in mid-air, his face scrunching with the force of honest to god thought. “ _Man_ ,” Charlie drawls in an exaggerated lean, and laughs at his own nonsensical joke.

Dennis raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t stop moving, either, wiping down the bar front. At least one of them is being productive and useful to society.  

He could rebuttal and remind Charlie that he is the manliest man there is. He could remind Charlie of his great pecs and phenomenal thighs. He could remind Charlie he is the golden god, the only god worth praising. He could tell Charlie to get to work, since Dennis is in charge today. He could, but arguing with Charlie doesn’t seem like a fight worth winning, today. Not when Charlie is so incoherent he can’t perceive his own two feet stepping in his own body fluid.

“Yeah, sure,” Dennis waves the thought away, voice light and amicable as he can muster. Which is to say bored as hell, but Charlie doesn’t seem to mind. “Whatever you say.”

Charlie raises his hand again, fingers splayed comically wide. He looks like a delirious amphibian creature covered in slime. Disgusting, but somehow happy to swim in a sea down under.

“You both are a bunch of idiots, really. You could be so much happier.” Charlie stares at his fingers, dazed, until Dennis knocks his elbow away with two fingers too many.

Charlie relents, taking one step back to stare at Dennis from a safer distance. He sighs, forlorn. “I just think you’d be happier. I mean, hell, if Mac can do it, so can you, dude.”

Dennis freezes.

He covers the slip well enough, years of well-executed grace to cover years of shitty situations with shittier parents ingrained into his system. Thank god Charlie is inebriated enough to not bother with detail, thank god Mac is nowhere within the bar to overhear. Dennis wants to recoil, wants to strike with venom and strike fast, but that would be giving Charlie the reaction he wants. That would be losing even with the toxin. Dennis looks up at Charlie and calls the bluff, because today is a slow day and Charlie is stupid. Because everything is slimy and gross like the floor and that makes it not worth examining, not worth knowing, not worth seeing.

Charlie stares right back, daring and foolish in a way only heavy drinking and limited brain capacity allows. His brow furrows in an approximation of so-called masculinity, and Dennis nearly laughs outright at the idiot Charlie makes of himself without any overt effort on his part. He has no idea how brainless he is, and no idea how genius, either; Dennis would never admit such idiocy aloud, but Charlie has his moments of lucidity, and his most unfortunate of intuitive glimpses occur when he’s well past tipsy and tumbling down the rabbit hole to lucid dreams.

Even with the promise of impending unconsciousness, Dennis will not be convinced. He will not be swayed by foolish notions and even more foolish dreams. He will not rescind his power, the small sliver of it he has left. Even if it won’t be remembered, even if it won’t matter tomorrow. It matters now, it matters to _him_ , and Dennis is the only audience who matters. He is the only one who has ever mattered, no matter what Charlie thinks. No matter what he believes.

Dennis scoffs and walks away from the accused and the accuser. What does Charlie know about Dennis. What does Charlie know about fighting.

What does Charlie know about happiness.

 

* * *

 

They go clubbing.

Dennis can’t quite remember how they ended up here, or what they were intending to accomplish before they resorted to this inane way of passing the time. They were here for some greater purpose, Dennis is certain, but he can’t ascertain what that purpose is—was? But when Mac moves closer, his arm brushing Dennis’ back, Dennis doesn’t really care one way or the other because this is an opportunity, this is _good_ , and Dennis won’t let such a beautiful chance walk right on by.

It’s not difficult to get lost in the feeling, because this is what Dennis is good at: drowning himself in the mundane. He feels electric in a way that’s been more or less fabricated for weeks, he feels alive in the sultry and the sweat and the heartbeat of the drums thrumming along with that sweet, sweet bassline. It’s what Dennis thrives on, what he hungers for: what he touches but never tastes, or if he does, it’s but a momentary satisfaction before the dinner is served and the meal done.

Mac sidles his way into Dennis’ side the way he always does, the way they always find each other. Dennis has been Mac’s compass pointing north since they were fifteen, getting high behind the bleachers at the old high school. Dennis doesn’t mind being Mac’s obsession or muse; in fact, on nights like tonight when there’s tequila in his veins and a song in his heart, Dennis even kind of...likes it.

So he twines his arms around Mac’s neck, then turns his body around so his back can flirt with the edges of Mac’s front. It’s all so very poetic, in Dennis’ mind: his glorious, golden body on display for Mac to see, but not to touch. Dennis writhes his hips in tune to the music, swivels his backside close but never close enough to instigate any sort of friction. Dennis can feel Mac’s hands hovering near his waist, unsure of his position and his power, and it’s the same song and dance that’s been playing since they were teenagers. Except this isn’t some frottage show and Dennis isn’t some horny pre-teen; they are adults with secrets and men with issues, so instead of moving on from the past they flirt with it instead, teasing a steady, familiar tune on repeat.

Tonight though, Dennis puts Mac’s hands on him. Over his chest, reaching near his hips. He instructs Mac how to caress and linger in sync with that hypnotic bass, moving in seductive half-circles as the song dictates. By the time the second chorus hits Dennis directs Mac’s hands further up his chest, and when Mac reaches for Dennis’ pecs of his own volition then Dennis responds in kind: forgetting the game in favor of grinding on Mac in a way he’s never permitted before. It’s all too tantalizing, and the longer Mac keeps touching him, adoring him, allowing him, the more Dennis takes.

It’s all Dennis ever does. _Take_.

Dennis tells himself it’s easy to allow this because Mac is out now. Because Mac definitely, solidly wants to know how it feels like to have Dennis all to himself, even if it’s just one night.

It’s a solid excuse, but the longer Mac touches him, the longer they sway together under the flashing neon lights, the more Dennis sinks into it. He doesn’t remember how he got here, and he doesn’t know when he was pulled under, either; he’s floating underwater with no tether to shore except Mac’s hand guiding his, keeping him afloat when Dennis goes boneless and languid in Mac’s arms. And it’s easy, so easy to forget.

They may drown, but at least they’ll drown together.

Dennis leans back, rests his head on Mac’s shoulder. “Our secret,” he whispers in Mac’s ear, and chuckles at the irony.

It’s not Mac’s secret anymore, is it?

 

* * *

 

There are moments when Dennis is more eloquent with actions than words.

That’s not to say he’s uneducated. That’s not to say he isn’t a brilliant wordsmith in his own right. That’s not to say he isn’t persuasive. Dennis Reynolds is many things, and a smooth-talking, good-looking specimen of a man is absolutely one of them. The problem isn’t knowing which words to say, the problem is the desire behind them, and that is something best led by Dennis’ instincts, which are rusty and unreliable and most definitely terrifying, but somehow that’s better than the alternative of bullshitting his way through this.

 _This_ being a confrontation with Mac MacDonald himself.

Well, maybe confrontation is too strong a word. Mac seems to think so, if his wide eyes and frozen posture are any indication.

“What, uh.” Mac blinks himself back into a quasi-normal stance. “What is this, bro?”

 _This_ being Dennis perched on the armrest of their sofa, one leg crossed over the other, waiting for Mac to return home.

“Oh, just.” Dennis uncrosses his legs. Resists the urge to run his palms down his thighs. “Just waiting for you, dude.” He laughs, high-pitched and uncomfortable.

“Oh.” Mac sits on the opposite chair, legs spread wide and back ramrod straight. His hair is damp and unkempt, a few drops of water clinging to his collar. He’s dressed simply, gym shorts and an old t-shirt, but the sight of Mac’s muscles on display is still a recent enough development in Dennis’ life to thwart the familiar into something thoroughly disorienting.

Dennis didn’t even know Mac’s new routine well enough to know when to expect him home. He knew Mac was out at the gym, but how long his workout regime might last was a mystery. Adding to the conundrum was the component of Rex joining in the fray, a willing, suitable contestant to the gym life that Dennis was absolutely outmatched for. Join the dots together and you have a Dennis Reynolds who has been nervously pacing the living room becoming more and more unglued the longer he pictures just _what_ two insanely hot men might get up to in the public showers. He’s been there with Mac, after all, and it doesn’t take an artist’s stroke to imagine how one sweaty activity might lead to the next.

By far the worst, most haunting thought was Dennis’ keening suspicion that Rex was enjoying every waking moment with a doting, courteous Mac as much as Dennis surely would. Dennis almost can’t even blame the guy, in his mind: Mac is well-chiseled and even better built, and if Dennis met this version of Mac out on the street, he would absolutely give him five stars, no question.

But salivating over Mac now has the dual effect of making Dennis acutely aware of Mac’s presence in the past tense, too. As in, Dennis misses the days where Mac would try to plaster himself to Dennis’ side with nary a thought. As in, Dennis misses the way Mac is across the living room, close but not close enough, the chasm between them a tangible, nostalgic thing.

As in, Dennis misses a lot of things.

Still, this kind of situation, this kind of _talk_ requires that Mac find Dennis believable. Requires that Mac not think what Dennis is about to imply any version of false. Requires that Dennis have _feelings_. Which is rare, even on good days, so Dennis sets out with care. He can’t bullshit or lie his way around this one.

“I just,” Dennis starts, nonsensically, before sliding off the armrest in one smooth move. He’s more nervous than he planned, but he’s prepared for this event for two hours straight. Plus or minus the time he spent fantasizing—in great detail—Mac and Rex in the recreation bathroom. That might have delayed his outline by a good thirty minutes. But it’s fine, it’s all _fine_ , Dennis can work with this. He’s worked with less and made it work.

The cul de sac of a thought is not helpful. Dennis looks over at Mac again to ground himself. Mac’s eyebrows are raised, just a little, but he’s calm. He’s cool and collected and so, so beautiful. Dennis doesn’t know how he hasn’t allowed himself this before, doesn’t know why he’s waited so long. The water droplets slowly make their way down Mac’s collarbone. Dennis takes a step toward it, grateful for the distraction, and feels himself swallow.

“I was just thinking that we should...” Dennis reaches his destination of Mac’s legs and sinks down to his knees. Mac’s eyebrows have not risen further, as Dennis expected they might, but his eyes squint in suspicion. Not what Dennis was going for, but he can still salvage the situation. Even if Mac’s legs haven’t opened in invitation, either.

Dennis places a hand on Mac’s thigh.

Mac stands up, which brings Dennis’ hand so,  _so_ close to his intended target of Mac’s groin, but only for a moment. Because in the next moment Mac is pacing, a mirror image of Dennis a few hours before, but that’s where the similarities end. Because Mac is stripping his hair apart at the scalp and running his mouth like he hasn’t done since they were freshmen in high school, talking about sex in hushed tones underneath the bleachers. He speaks nonsensically to himself for a good thirty seconds, pacing back and forth all the while, before he stops everything all at once: the pacing, the hair-pulling, the talking.

In the next moment, the mirror shatters completely.

“What the _shit_ ,” Mac settles on, glancing at Dennis with eyes comically wide. Dennis wants to redirect this energy elsewhere, somewhere far more constructive and eye-opening, somewhere back to target where Dennis is in control, somewhere hot and heavy, but he doesn’t think putting his hands on Mac’s neck and stroking his hair is going to do the trick. Not this time.

Dennis waits, not sure if he has permission to speak, or if his voice will disrupt Mac’s famous temper. Mac doesn’t override the silence, though, doesn’t do much of anything but blink at Dennis with a face full of rage and disbelief. The driblet of water sticking to his collarbone is gone. The perfectly coiffed, post-shower hair is in shambles. The image of a dream clashing against harsh reality teases Dennis, an insult, but _oh,_ Dennis clings the imaginary for all he’s worth. It’s better than the sting of rejection. It’s better than never feeling anything at all.

It’s better to have someone else to blame.

“This is Rex, isn’t it? Goddamnit, I _knew_ this was going to be a problem.” Dennis feels his knuckles clench into fists.

“What the—” Mac’s beautiful, freshly groomed face contorts into a frown of confusion, followed by anger. “No, dude, he was just giving me some workout tips, Jesus _Christ_ , way to jump to conclusions.”

Dennis stays on his knees. He looks up at Mac through lascivious lashes, hoping against hope the tapes never gave Mac quite this much detail. Hoping he can still make this work. Hoping Mac won’t leave. Again.

Dennis pitches his voice down low. There’s a desperate edge caught in his throat, this close to the floor, that he ignores along with the ache in his knees. “Baby…”

But that makes Mac back up. Move away. It makes his face harden into a sculpture cracked down the middle. Forget clay, forget malleable. Mac is all hard lines and straight ridges. He’s stubborn as a mule when he wants to be, and now he has the muscle to prove it. Dennis twinges.

And so the scale tips.

“No,” Mac says, and his voice is firm. “No, no, no, no, no. Just last week you were saying, Dennis, you _said_ you wanted nothing to do with me, that it was never gonna happen.” His voice is serious, but his eyes are slanted with pain.

“You said that.”

Dennis groans. This is not how he wanted this evening to pan out. “Yes, but only because…” Dennis casts a quick glance up, but Mac still isn’t budging. He isn’t buying. He takes another step back.

Dennis runs a hand down his face. “The others were watching, man, I just wanted to keep it between us. I said that too, see?”

Mac shudders, and somehow that hurts worse than the outright refusal does.

“Dude, I know all about keeping secrets. Or lying to yourself. Or whatever shit you’re on about right now. But this?” Mac gestures between them. “This isn’t just lying, man. This is a whole other level. You can’t just jerk me around until the moment you feel like lowering yourself to my level.”

Dennis snaps back to attention. His hand outstretches, but Mac just takes another step back. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you are. You always have. You don’t have to pretend, man, I’ve known it since high school.”

Dennis feels his blood surge from lukewarm to hot. His eyes burn. “I don’t hang out with people out of sympathy.”

Mac’s brown eyes are alight with a fire of their own. “Oh, I agree. You don’t. But if they cater to your every wish you maybe might.”

It may as well be a slap in the face.

They’ve fought with each other hundreds of times. They’ve broken up twice. They’ve made up countless times. Dennis knows just what Mac’s knuckles feel like the moment they strike his cheekbones, but this doesn’t feel like that. This doesn’t feel like wet, hot blood spilling across the pavement. This doesn’t feel like a door shutting in his face. This feels like a bruise, bright purple and sweltering, swollen and miserable to touch.

“Look,” Mac says, and he sounds less angry, but not in a way that means victory. He sounds resigned, and that’s worse. It’s so, so much worse. “Just tell me the truth, for once in your goddamn life, and I’ll—” he sighs. Runs his fingers through his hair. Dennis wonders whether the movement disrupted the fine mist from the shower, whether the motion swept those brown locks across Mac’s forehead the way Dennis prefers. “I’ll stay.”

It sounds so easy, when Mac says it. Everything sounds so goddamn easy when Mac says it. But Dennis isn’t Mac, and the truth isn’t some string he can just untangle at will. Dennis wouldn’t even know where to start unraveling the knot that is his heart if he tried.

“I—”

Dennis chokes on air. He feels himself close back up, the shield forming back into place. He hates himself a little for it, hates himself for coming so far just to falter on the ledge, when he’s so close to bridging the gap.

Mac doesn’t wait and stare at the aftermath like Dennis would. He doesn’t watch the internal bleeding with morbid fascination. He doesn’t cut the skin clean off, methodical and precise, doesn’t poke and prod and laugh and scream the way Dennis once dreamed he might.

Mac doesn’t do any of these things, because Mac walks away.

Dennis is proud of him, in the end. Proud and ashamed and terrified, because it proves Dennis’ scientific research once and for all. The results were there the entire time, but Dennis chose not to see them, convinced they didn’t matter. Convinced it couldn’t.

But now Dennis knows. Now it’s verifiable.

Mac is a better man. Mac has always been the better man.

 

* * *

 

There was a phase there, in high school, where Dennis wanted nothing more than to fuck with Mac’s head.

To get beneath his Jesus complex, behind his gay instincts and give them both a good, stern talking to. To call Mac out on the bullshit and the lies, to really, _really_ grab hold of the reins that Mac left out, neglected, like he didn’t even want it anyway, and show Mac everything he was missing out on. How great his life could be. And it wasn’t just sex, either. It was _everything_. No feigning he was only interested in a woman’s ass and not her tits. No pretending Dennis wasn’t the most beautiful man he’d ever had eyes for. No more waiting for a father that was never coming home. No use waiting on love, period.

It wasn’t that Dennis wanted to change Mac’s religion. Dennis didn’t give a shit what Mac believed in, so long as he knew the facts. So long as he believed in himself. Dennis didn’t want to change Mac, he wanted to _evolve_ Mac. Just a little bit, just enough to blow his mind. Just enough for Mac to peak all over Philadelphia, at the spurring of Dennis’ magical, powerful hands.

They were underneath the bleachers, on the right side of too high, staring out at the clouds and guessing at shapes. It was ridiculous, fairy-tale shit, and Dennis had decidedly more fun staring at Mac than making eyes at some makeshift white clouds. Mac was here, Mac was real. Mac could be a great time, if he allowed himself the chance.

Mac had glanced over, after a good five minutes of Dennis’ staring, a little hesitation and a little fear in the widening of his eyes. He shifted back and away, just a sliver, just enough so their arms weren’t touching. A warning sign.

 _Not now_. Dennis smiled the thought away, showing his teeth. Not now, but someday, he would change Mac’s life for the better. He would be Mac’s salvation, his saving grace. One day he could be Mac’s god, his one and only. Not now, but one day.

_Soon._

 

* * *

 

Dennis has been free from drugs for eight years, five months, and fourteen days.

He hasn’t smoked the stuff, hasn’t inhaled it, hasn’t injected his arm and floated away on the high. He hasn’t succumbed even when Mac volunteered to share his insulin. Even when Mac asked him what he wanted most in the world and the answer was unequivocally cocaine.

Somehow, the following week feels worse than withdrawal. Worse than their failed schemes and two-bit attempts to ingratiate themselves higher on the economic ladder. Somehow Dennis feels as though he was dependent on a drug he didn’t even know existed, didn’t know the scope of. Didn’t know the effects, the pros, the cons, the in between. Didn’t know how it felt in his bloodstream, didn’t know the exact taste and texture until the syringe was ripped from his arm, forcibly, until Dennis was left in the alley lying on the concrete pavement, crying into his own slick spit.

Somehow, he’s never fallen so low.

He wasn’t lying when he said he had big feelings, but this? This is beyond an emotional range even Dennis didn’t know he was capable of.

Dennis has never believed in doctors, therapists, or nurses. He believes in their power, but not the person. He is a man of science, after all, and he knows their processes and their ways. He’s studied their textbooks, he’s researched their techniques. He knows, better than anyone, how to manage this condition.

But just this once, just this goddamn _once_ , Dennis would like someone to tell him. To say, in no uncertain terms, what _this_ is. What is the affliction, where is the cause, where is the source.

Frank finds him in the front seat of his new Range Rover, staring at absolutely nothing, refusing to set foot inside the bar he knows so well, inside the comforting four walls called home. Frank finds Dennis in a state of disrepair and takes one glance before rolling his eyes in aggravation.

“Come on,” Frank says, knowing full well Dennis can hear him with the windows rolled up.

 _Come on_ , Frank waves with his short, stubby hands, and says he has just the thing.  

 

* * *

 

The thing about Frank is, he’s never been much of a parental figure.

He wasn’t back when Dennis was a teenager, getting high under the bleachers with two dirty boys, and he isn’t now, when he hatches yet another scheme that is more ridiculous than the last. Dennis used to crave the attention, crave the inclusion, but now it feels too empty, too raw. Now even the illusion of being a unit hunting down a rare beast is as false as the final verdict. Now Dennis knows it was never about the outcome, and never about the hunt, either. Now he knows he was always the one chasing. Now he knows he was the prey all along.

And the thing is, Dennis knows. He knows these people he calls family are really just looking out for themselves. He knows he’s hatched endless schemes with less valid of reasons, let alone camaraderie. He knows all this time he was following in his father’s footsteps, and isn’t that ironic, too, considering Frank was never his father at all.

Dennis doesn’t know when the hatching and planning of schemes fell short. He doesn’t know why what used to fuel his inspiration for money, girls, and booze now feels hollow. He doesn’t know why Valentine’s Day mattered so much then, and why Rex does so much now. He doesn’t know why he’s ashamed of himself, terrified of his desires, lost in the collective well of emotion he’s not equipped to carry, let alone feel.

Dennis bought himself a new car, but it doesn’t feel like home. He came back to his friends, but they don’t feel like family. He tried to reach out to Mac, but it backfired.

Maybe the worst part is, Dennis understands why this is happening. Maybe the worst part is, he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Maybe he should have stayed in North Dakota.

Or maybe he would have hated himself even more if he hadn’t tried.

 

* * *

 

Twenty-four hours is a long time, Dennis finds out.

He spends most of it drunk, but he never gets high. He wants to, the urge is there, flickering under his skin, but the propensity for self-pity wins out instead. Dennis Reynolds is his own worst enemy, but he makes great company.

He laughs more often, but not at the others. Not at their misfortune, or their gain. He laughs at himself, high-pitch and screeching, like a hyena in a pack of wolves. He’s always been fascinated by the abnormal and arcane, but he’s never found such hysteria in himself until now. He never knew he was capable of such lows, but now that he’s back—now that he’s back and lost everything that mattered—Dennis is a new kind of animal: a hybrid mix both deranged and unclassified.

Mac, for his part, gives Dennis a wide berth. He’s never been subtle, his intentions always plain, but forfeiting a competition of his own volition, because of Dennis is beyond abnormal.

It’s intentional.

“But the scavenger hunt,” Dennis tries to salvage to Mac’s retreating back, but his voice is too quiet and too pleading to be anything but gravel in his mouth. No matter, Dennis would drown out the taste soon enough. When he was alone, when there was nothing but himself and his empty, black heart to despise in the dark.

Mac didn’t turn around right away, which was worse than not turning around at all. When he did, there wasn’t a smile on his face. There was no trace of that youthful, puppy-dog sappiness in his eyes. There was nothing but years of resentment and missed chances in the dark pools of his eyes. Nothing but an hourglass staring back, having run out of sand. Mac’s eyes were a shadow in the dark, the way Dennis liked best, but the threat was all too tangible this time.

_Time’s up, indeed._

Mac sighs. He looks at the floor. He looks at Dennis. “It didn’t really matter anyway.”

A word of pleading is on the tip of Dennis’ tongue. He can feel its texture, feel its shape, but the vowels don’t form, the language doesn’t stick. Nothing happens, because Dennis can’t make it happen. Because he can’t force himself to be better, no matter how vivid the picture may be. Dennis Reynolds can’t do anything but watch Mac walk away, a shot reverse shot of what Dennis did to him some months before.

Mac does turn around though, just once, as his shoulder pries open the door. But whatever he sees on Dennis’ face isn’t enough to convince him to stay, if it ever could at all.

 

* * *

 

Dennis and Mac met over drugs.

Funny, how some things in life end up repeating themselves.

 

* * *

 

Dee comes by later, a bottle in offering.

“Way to go, boner,” she says, but the words don’t matter. Her tone is light, understanding almost, and if there’s one thing Dennis despises most from his sister, it’s sympathy. Dennis Reynolds doesn’t accept handouts unless they’re government issued or laced in cocaine.

So he rejects her, of course. Dennis has too much pride to stoop so low. He hasn’t moved since Mac walked out the front door, but he refuses to admit he’s wallowing. Refuses to admit defeat, even if it means sulking in a corner nursing a dry, worn-out heart.  

Dee just shoves the beer more pointedly in his face.

Dennis huffs. “I don’t _want_ your beer, you dumb—”

“—bitch?” Dee finishes for him, harsh. Dennis can’t see her full face in his peripheral, but he can hear her sharp sigh. So different from Mac’s resigned sound, but somehow the effect is the same. Disappointment at its finest.

Dee slaps the bottle down on the bar countertop, hard enough Dennis is surprised it doesn’t shatter. “So what, I’m a dumb bitch for being the only one who sticks around? You know what, Dennis? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I _am_ a dumb bitch.”

Dee shoves the beer in his direction. Not a choice now, but still an offering. Dennis stares at the condensation collecting on the circumference, slowly sinking its way to the bartop. It’s going to stain the wood without a coaster, but Dee is too angry to care. Dennis is too miserable to bother fixing the problem before it starts.

“You want to be miserable?” Dee comes around the counter, her voice a sharp whisper in Dennis’ ear. Her breath is hot, her perfume pungent. “You did this to yourself.”

Dee stomps away, slapping the front door closed on her way out. Dennis still doesn’t move. Everyone leaves, including Dennis. He started this cycle, and now he despises its existence.

Irony.

Dennis blinks down at the water circling the drain. He watches it spill onto the wood, watches it sink its claws into the carpentry Mac so adores. Dennis stares at the small pool of water collecting at his fingertips and wishes, not the first time, he could make himself cry.

 

* * *

 

Mac doesn’t come home that night.

Dennis didn’t really expect him to, but expectation doesn’t make the reality hurt any less. For someone so adamant on checking in, there’s really no way to interpret Mac’s absence as anything but a punch in the gut: he knows just what he’s doing, Mac MacDonald, and if he’s walked away from something he believes in, then you know just how badly you fucked up.

Dennis sits on the same sofa he dreamed of seducing Mac on some twenty-four hours before and marvels at how different one day can feel from the next. There’s no lights on, no TV, nothing but the clock ticking away on the wall above his head, Dennis’ only contribution to the apartment he adores. There’s no Mac talking Dennis’ ear off with mindless chatter, there’s no food cooking on the stove Dennis never uses. There’s no lingering smell of sweat on Mac’s bad days, no overwhelming cologne on his good ones. There’s no shoes tucked by the door, neat and orderly the way Mac prefers.

Nothing but the grating _tick, tock_ of time wasting away, robotic and mechanical.

Dennis hasn’t been alone since he embarked to and from North Dakota with two very different people in mind, and the world had seemed bigger, then. Brighter. The hills and valleys and roadways and towns filled with rare synergy, temporary as Dennis’ optimism may have been. Dennis doesn’t know what he’d been waiting for, doesn’t know what prospect he was so giddy about realizing, but one failed dream after the next Dennis sits in a familiar apartment with no lights and no Mac and realizes home was never a place, but a person.

Somehow, hope still appears on the doorstep anyway. Despite Dennis’ maudlin thoughts, or maybe because of them.

Dennis hears it before he sees it: the hard pad of boots creaking along the floor, the weighted gait of a man walking down the hall. The hesitation, the key turning in the lock. The door opening a sliver, light shining through.

Dennis doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Forty-eight hours later this version of Dennis is silent and depleted, no longer vying for attention.

Mac startles when he spots Dennis on the sofa, knees bent, not crossed, and back straight, not curved. He looks insane or dead, no two ways around it, but after setting down the keys with a sigh, Mac enters the apartment and shuts the door with no hesitation. He’s no longer attempting to be covert, and he’s not scared, either: Dennis watches with rapt fascination as Mac removes his jacket and his shoes, not looking at Dennis at all.

Mac lingers at the threshold, as though unsure where he should stand. Or look. His face gives everything away, it always does, and for once Dennis is grateful for the transparency. He doesn’t look concerned, as Dennis expected he might, but he does look preoccupied, as though hours of driving around the city doing god knows what hasn’t helped him puzzle his head on straight. His shoulders stand at attention when he shoves his hands in his pockets and faces Dennis head on.

“Hey,” Mac whispers, quiet.

Dennis coughs. His voice is barely a above a wheeze when he sputters out a feeble, “Hey.”

Mac nods, blinks down at the ground. His hair is a mess, Dennis can see the outline even in the dark. Somehow disheveled always looked good on Mac but terrible on Dennis, another one of those natural powers Mac held over him and never knew. Dennis has always been jealous of Mac in some form or another, and Mac has always been jealous right back: they leeched from each other what the other lacked like insects, but Dennis always harbored a sick sort of attachment to the taste.

But it’s different, now. It’s been different ever since Mac came out and showed Dennis what true power really looked like. It’s been different since Dennis came back and made a fool of himself, over and over and _over_.

Dennis is tired. He wishes he was drunk, wishes he was high. But the image in front of him is sharp as ever, and Dennis can’t force himself to look away from the crash. His eyes are dry as shit because he never did cry, and every minute forcing his eyes open has rendered the organs useless as sandpaper. He can’t fall back on drugs because that story ends with Dennis shipped so far from his original objective it’s goddamn pitiful. And that leaves booze as the only alternative, but even that particular vice didn’t hold much appeal. Nothing made the cut, because nothing else mattered.

And Mac, beautiful Mac, knows it. Because Dennis is transparent, too.

“Come on,” Mac whispers on a sigh, and steps forward.

He hooks one arm beneath Dennis’ knees, the other curving around Dennis’ back, and hoists Dennis into the air and into Mac’s arms. In a fit of dramatic irony that is Dennis’ life, they’re together on the sofa, then they’re together in the air, more intimate a position than Dennis has ever achieved when left to his own devices. Dennis didn’t even _ask_ , but Mac knew what Dennis needed and whisked him away with scarcely a word spoken between them.

The juxtaposition pricks behind Dennis’ eyes, emotion welling in his throat. He’s getting what he wants, but the victory doesn’t taste so sweet. Everything is ass-backwards, Dennis’ life distorted in reverse, and what he came back to gain he’s somehow lost. Possibly forever, and that’s—goddamn _sad_.

Not to mention goddamn irritating.

Dennis blinks away the moisture attempting to collect on his eyelids. He’s a peculiar mixture of frail and frustrated, a small ball of conflicting impulses that makes him both growl and shrivel. There’s still that damn incessant ticking, the clock a gavel to Dennis’ doom, and then there’s Mac, sturdy and steadfast as ever, leading Dennis away from loneliness, away from darkness, away from the cold.

“Shh,” Mac whispers. He’s so big and warm, familiar but distant. Dennis sinks deeper into Mac’s chest, crosses his arms to avoid a shiver. He sniffs, indignant, wishing this horrific evening away. Mac is a large, sturdy presence, enveloping Dennis everywhere, and Dennis didn’t know breaking could feel so bad—or so good.

Mac deposits Dennis in his bed. He covers Dennis with extra blankets, tucks a quilted comforter around his shoulder. His fingers pause on Dennis’ shoulder before he backs away. His touch lingers, a ghost.

“Thank you,” Dennis whispers. Even if he hates this evening, even if he hates himself, he could never hate Mac, not truly. Not ever.

“Goodnight,” is all Mac says, but he leaves the door open, just a little.

So a little light can still slip through.

 

* * *

 

Dennis rarely dreams.

He wishes he did. Wishes he could recall in perfect detail all his fantasies, all his desires. Dennis has a rich imagination, the teachers always said, but no amount of craving make his dreams stick. He’s too intelligent, too realistic and flamboyant his mind couldn’t handle the intensity, even in sleep.

True to form, Dennis doesn’t dream when Mac tucks him into bed. And he doesn’t envision Mac’s palms sturdy around his waist, either, doesn’t imagine the faint mixture of sweat and rainwater clinging to Mac’s bulging forearms. Dennis has always liked the natural component of Mac’s physicality, but no amount of thinking and wishing the night away leaves Dennis with anything but an ache and a boner to show for it, in that order. 

Dennis closes his eyes. _Way to go, boner_ , Dee’s voice mocks in his head. _You’d be so much happier_ , Charlie chirps, too optimistic for his own good. _I have just the thing_ , Frank says, both wise and foolish. _Go find your roommate_ , Mandy says in lieu of goodbye, and somehow that one hits hardest of all. Dennis already knew he could fail the gang, but to fail her, too? It’s the hairpin of the grenade being pulled, finally, the tension exploding in a brilliant display that leaves Dennis with the charred remains of a Range Rover, and the sorry remnants of a friendship he took for granted for far, far too long.

 

* * *

 

Dennis knows he needs to change. He believes in evolution, after all, and Mac’s sudden development into a healthier, happier person requires Dennis to adapt, too: he must transform into the golden god he’s always proclaimed to be or admit defeat. Dennis knows the world revolves around survival of the fittest, and Dennis fully intends on surviving. It’s just...perplexing that he should have to adapt at all. That Mac would be the one pushing the boundaries, without any outward effort on his part.

Dennis knows the cards. He knows the play, and he knows the outcome.

It’s just strange, because a god shouldn’t have to change. Godhood is a standard, a precedent. So who is Dennis Reynolds really, and why should he have to prove his?

 

* * *

 

Things continue in a usual pattern: Mac still hits up the gym. He still hangs out with Rex. Frank and Charlie still search for sparkly items underneath the booth. Dee still berates Dennis’ nonexistent whining. Dennis steadily ignores anything and everything whose name doesn’t start and end with booze. Who’s to say how much time passes? Could be days, could be weeks, could be months. Dennis doesn’t know, and Dennis doesn’t care. The monotony of time is a drain on his senses, the taste of life mere slop in his mouth. Everything falls into a familiar pattern, languid and dull, until the day Dee approaches, armed with yet another patented _look_.

“Come on, dick,” is all she says.

Dennis follows because he has nothing better to do. Because his day consists of burning holes into the back of Rex’s brain every time he walks in the front door. Because he’s been a dick too many times in the past week. Because…

He’s curious.

Dee leads Dennis to the roof, where she also promptly leaves him. “Don’t make me regret this,” she says on her way down the ladder. She touches Dennis’ arm as she goes, a comfort and a warning.

Then, just as suddenly, Mac is in her place.

“Tell me what this is about, Dennis,” he’s saying, voice sad and hoarse. His chest is heaving, but he’s not even goddamn out of breath after presumably running down the street and up the stairs. Dennis hates it and he loves it and that’s kind of how this entire song and dance has been going for him lately: a mixture of desperation and despair, a concoction of hate and love.

But also maybe mostly not hate.

Mostly Dennis hopes he can say it out loud, this time.

He’s out of time, he knows. There’s no sugarcoating this thing between them, no more pretending it doesn’t exist. For Dennis to get what he wants, he has to give Mac what he wants, too. Validation. Affection. Love. Dennis always thought he could keep them out of Mac’s reach, close enough to see, but far enough away to keep tugging him forward, headlong, until he burned in Dennis’ orbit.

But now Dennis sees. He didn’t have the upper hand back then, if he ever did at all.

“I just wanted to…” Dennis tries, he really does. He just can’t get the fucking words out. Maybe that’s why he was so flabbergasted, the day Mac finally came out. He made it look so easy. Everything Mac touches is so goddamn _easy_ , and Dennis is more jealous than he’s ever been. But it’s not Rex he’s jealous of, misplaced and directionless as his rage had been. It’s just Mac. Easy, beautiful, simple Mac, who makes affection look easy. Who makes bravery look beautiful. Who makes words revolutionary and touches light. Who makes up ridiculous solutions to even more ridiculous problems, but who always, _always_ comes when Dennis calls. Mac, who is everything Dennis has ever wanted to have, but never had the courage to ask.

It feels like a scene out of a movie, like a secret epilogue tucked between scenes while the credits roll: Dennis, waiting on the rooftop of Paddy’s, a sunset slowly dying in the distance, ready to embark on a quest for love. He’s a little off-mark, though, and way off script: the sunset was laid to rest some five minutes before Mac showed up, and there’s a notable chill in the air freezing Dennis’ arms from the inside out. But maybe there’s still something to this, maybe Dennis can still get it right.

Maybe.

Maybe Dee was more right than she realized. It occurs to Dennis now she never tortured the truth out of him; just took one look at his miserable face and offered him a renewal token, free of charge.

“Don’t play with me, man,” Mac is saying, running a hand through his hair. He’s a desperate, walking disaster in street clothes, finally back to some semblance of normalcy in dark jeans and a cut-off grey t-shirt. He still looks different, an amalgamation of past and present combined, but the picture is easier to dissect, now. In the darkness, in Mac’s old clothes. He looks bigger, healthier, stronger—but he looks more real, too. He looks like a person Dennis could touch and hold. He looks how Dennis dreamt he might, on the rare occasions Dennis offered himself over to Mac’s particular vice: he looks like he tried, for Dennis’ sake, to keep the scenery familiar. To make the words easier to say. Because Mac knows how Dennis struggles. He knows how hard feelings are.

He knows all about the lies Dennis tells himself.

Dennis takes a deep breath. His shoulders heave as he stares at Mac, staring back at him. His heart is beating double time. He thinks he might pass out, but first he has to _start the goddamn conversation_.

“I wanted to be with you, okay?” Dennis blurts, not even thinking the words through. Not thinking at all.

Mac keeps staring, but his eyes are a little wide. There’s no other emotion eeking into his expression yet, nothing besides sheer bewilderment at Dennis expressing an honest to god emotion. He’s not the only one.

It turns awkward after ten or so seconds of nothingness, just a too-intense standoff between forty year old men who have known each other for decades. The wind rustles Mac’s hair—damp and unkempt, the way Dennis likes best—and Dennis spares a thought to wonder if that little bit of effort was done on purpose, too.

Dennis fucking loves him for it. He does.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mac says, barrelling forward.

He stops about five inches away from Dennis’ face. He stalls there, swaying a little on his feet, staring into Dennis’ eyes. Like he’s trying to catch Dennis in a lie, like he’s trying to call the bluff. But this isn’t a trick, and there’s nowhere to hide: it’s nothing but a stalemate of breath until someone makes the final move.

It’s Mac, of course. That’s what Dennis has learned, after all this time.

It’s always been Mac.

 

* * *

 

Dennis can honestly say he never envisioned this happening before.

Kissing Mac? Sure, no hardship there. Making out with Mac? Easy. But being pushed against a wall, feeling Mac’s hands slip around his wrists, feeling the outline of considerable muscle press against Dennis’ more fragile edges, feeling uprooted from his precarious position against Paddy’s questionable architecture?

That’s new.

It’s new, but it’s also enticing in a way Dennis never predicted or imagined. Mac is a sturdy, immovable force in front of him, beneath him, above him: Mac is everywhere in a way Dennis’ brain isn’t, in a way his dick is unquestionably on board for.

Still, there are elements to this...development that are more predictable. Comforting, in their familiarity. Mac being an easy kisser, for one, and an even more generous lover, for two.

Mac is gentle at first, and dirty with it later. He lures Dennis in with light, peppered kisses along his lips and across his neck, but then his tongue dips in, twists just right, and Dennis is distracted from his delusions of grandeur. He had been keeping careful track of Mac’s movements, certain he could tip the scale back in his favor, that he could ravish Mac within an inch of his life, but Mac sees through the bullshit, always, and takes hold of the reins instead, establishing control as he tears Dennis apart.

Dennis, for his part, fucking _loves_ it.

Dennis accepts Mac’s overwhelming enthusiasm with all the grace a man with an existential crisis can, which is to say not very well. But accept it he does, and revel in it he can, drowning himself in the generous well that is Mac’s affection, finally, at last.  

Mac releases Dennis’ wrists, wrapping one hand around Dennis’ thigh while the other snakes across Dennis’ back in a solid embrace. It should be too much, it should be not enough, but somehow the onslaught of physicality is just right, just enough without tipping into claustrophobia. Mac keeps kissing in that deep, thorough way of his, attentive to each gasp, grapple, and inhale and accommodating accordingly. How he has time to catalogue when Dennis can scarcely breathe is a mystery, but it isn’t like Dennis is going to spend his last remaining brain cell complaining.

Not this time, at least.

Dennis wishes he had half as much composure as he always envisioned in this scenario, if not for appearances then to feel as though he was an equal contributor. As it stands Dennis’ current existence has been reduced to a very real, very finite sense: to feel Mac’s lips and tongue—just the right about of wet—on every part of his body. To feel Mac’s weight writhe against Dennis’ soft stomach in just the right degree of desperate to feel hard. Dennis wants to blow Mac’s world, wants to prove the testament of his sexual prowess true, but he can’t even manage the muscle memory to spur his limbs into action. He wishes he could wrap all four grappling limbs around Mac, wishes he could utilize his thigh muscles and his pecs just right, but all his frustrated groaning and seal-hopping only serves to make Dennis all the more aware of Mac’s poise, graceful and perfect, moving in perfect symphony against Dennis’ lesser, frail form.

Which should be a turn-off, probably. Except it’s not, because Mac’s adept manner in stripping Dennis of his preconceived notions is unbelievably hot. Dennis stutters on a gasp when Mac rolls his hips, languid and visceral, and nearly swallows his tongue when it happens again and the result leaves Dennis a desperate, boneless mess in Mac’s arms. If Mac has plans, then Dennis is along for the ride, invested in the foreplay in a way he’s never been before, and doubts he ever will be again.

“ _Mac_.” Dennis feels his breath being punched out of him as Mac moves a particularly sharp thrust against his thigh. Dennis grips Mac’s arm tight—his mind spinning at Mac’s goddamn bicep being big enough Dennis can barely hold on—lets the haze of lust wash over him, drag him under, deeper and deeper until...

“Dennis,” Mac whispers back, voice a little brittle at the edges, a reminder that he’s here, he’s affected, he’s real. It makes Dennis writhe higher, makes him cling harder. It makes him redouble his efforts to be useful, to make this last, because Mac has always been Dennis’ buoy in the dark.

It’s all Dennis can do. It’s all he can be. Dennis clings to the sleeve of Mac’s cut off tee and whimpers before he drowns.

And Mac, beautiful Mac, catches him before he falls.

 

* * *

 

In the aftermath, Dennis breathes out against Mac’s shoulder and _shudders_.

Damn.

“I love you,” Dennis whispers on a sigh, and doesn’t a single damn that his voice is filled with awe.

Mac laughs, high-pitch with surprise, before wrapping an arm more securely around Dennis’ waist. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but his head burrows further into Dennis’ sweaty neck, so Dennis doesn’t feel the need to challenge the lousy comeback.

Dennis is too warm to be comfortable, but he’s too sated to care that Mac is stuck to him, skin to skin, while they bask in the high. The night is cool, the wind a welcome breeze on Dennis’ arms and thighs, the only part of his body not covered by the blanket that is Mac’s muscles. Bits of the brick wall at his back is stuck to Dennis’ ass, a painful itch, but Dennis can’t be bothered to care. All of Dennis’ arbitrary complaints and stubborn excuses have been fucked right out of him, the elevation of the last thirty minutes making the confession easier now than it ever was before. Dennis didn’t know he was capable of such bliss, but it’s startlingly easy. Because that’s what Mac does, that’s what he always did.

Mac makes the world smaller, makes their home brighter, makes the words easier.

“I love you too,” Mac whispers back, more serious, and Dennis smiles into Mac’s fucked up hair.

 _Yes_ , Dennis thinks. Things are going to be just fine.

 

* * *

 

After, they return to Paddy’s Pub.

Dee’s eyes are lasers the moment the front door creaks, but she doesn’t say a word. She gives Dennis a brief once over, gives Mac a more thorough inspection, and Dennis doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered Dee was clearly expecting Mac’s heart to be broken before his own.

Dee finishes her investigation with a shrug, but Dennis can see the smile she thinks she’s hiding when she cleans the countertop. She thinks she’s so clever, his sweet sister, but Dennis can see through her clear as glass.

Granted, the effect goes both ways.

Charlie is next in line, standing up from behind the bar at Dee’s left. He’s covered in dirt and water across his face and forearms, but if Dennis asks then it will lead to a story that inevitably ends with Dennis regretting he ever asked. Though it would prevent Charlie from asking questions _first,_ so maybe it’s not so bad, except:

“Did you two fuck, or…?”

Dennis flinches. Mac freezes. Even Dee stops wiping down the bar.

“What the—”

“It’s just that, Dee said, you know, you two were ‘fighting’ or whatever, which I assume is code for you two fucking, or some near approximation of the word…”

“Jesus _Christ._ ” Dennis hides his face in his hands. “I cannot believe this shit. Less than five goddamn minutes…”

“To be fair,” Dee says, holding up the rag in faux sympathy, “maybe you two should have gone home first.”

Dennis looks down at their bodies. What he finds is an unmitigated disaster, so awful and transparent Dennis wonders how they ever managed to think stepping foot inside the bar was a good idea. Mac has lost his shirt in the cleanup process, which would be relatively unsurprising in and of itself if Dennis hadn’t fucked up his hair in the proceedings beyond any stretch of normal. They’re standing on top of each other, which is normal enough, except that Mac’s hand has found its way to Dennis’ back pocket like they’re eighteen instead of thirty eight. Dennis can attribute both these incidents as marks on Mac’s permanent record, except that Dennis’ shirt has been mis-buttoned in two different places, and that’s the third strike: they’re out.

“What’s going on here?” Frank emerges from the back office, beckoned by Charlie’s grating voice.

“Oh, Mac and Dennis are fucking. Did fuck?” Charlie looks back at Dennis shirt. “Are fucking,” he corrects, still staring.

“Oh,” Frank says, shrugs, and grabs himself a beer.

“For Christ’s sake,” Dennis starts again, but Mac halts the oncoming rampage with a hand on Dennis’ forearm. Dennis doesn’t know if he’s more calm or more incensed that it’s the same hand that was previously in Dennis’ back pocket.

“We are, yes,” Mac says, and looks so sweet about it, too. Like he’s proud. Like he’s—“We are.” Mac looks at Dennis. He smiles. “Together.”

Dee nearly chokes.

“Congrats!” Charlie claps, then frowns. “Just please don’t do anything in the bathroom, please? We just got that straightened out, and I’m in there a lot, you know, for Charlie Work, so if anyone is going to see you two in action, it’s going to be me and…”

Dennis rolls his eyes and looks across to Mac, who is still smiling lightly, a _what do you do_ in the curve of his shoulder. He’s a sight to behold, shirtless and gleaming under the familiar flickering lights of Paddy’s. Dennis loves him best here, second only to their apartment, which is sure to become a disaster greater than or equal to their current unkempt clothes. Mac’s eyes are sparkling with mischief, his lip curling with soft adoration, and it’s like he knows Dennis from the inside out. He probably does. The tension around his shoulders is gone, he’s standing tall and proud and best of all, his left hand is back to its resting place in Dennis’ back pocket.

 _Home_ , Dennis thinks, smiling, and rests his hand there, too.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Join me in my misery on [tumblr](http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/). I hear Macdennis hell is nice this time of year.


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